Valley of the Dolls (46 page)

“Really around the world? I mean, not just London, Paris and Rome? But the Orient, India, Greece, Spain?”

“The works.” He looked at her closely. “I noticed you threw in Spain. Okay, we’ll search Spain from top to bottom. We’ll find Neely—I promise you we will.”

She worried about Neely constantly. After the television shambles, Neely had sat out her year of suspension. Then, with another fanfare of publicity, she had been signed to star in a big technicolor picture at a major studio. She was thin, radiant and exuberant, the center of attention. It was a major event—Neely O’Hara’s comeback. But after a few weeks of filming, the usual uneasy rumors began to drift into print. Neely was holding up production . . . Neely had a bad back . . . Neely had laryngitis. Then came the bombshell—the picture was to be scrapped, at a loss of half a million! Once again Neely was branded unreliable and uncooperative. There were even rumors that she had lost her voice.

Ten days later, with no warning, she had arrived at Anne’s apartment. She had no money, but her lawyers were arranging for the sale of her house—then she’d have a bundle. Anne let her move in, though she dreaded the disrupting influence. Television had forced her into a highly organized way of life. There were certain hours set aside to study scripts, set times for fittings, time put aside for complete rest and a facial before facing the cameras.

Neely’s invasion was cyclonic from the start. The phone kept ringing; newspapermen came in a steady stream, demanding interviews; fans were found prowling around the building. But Anne knew Neely needed her, and it would only be for a few weeks.

But the weeks stretched into months. The apartment was always in a shambles. Three maids quit. Neely broke a lamp and an end table lurching around in a semiconscious state. Anne kept emptying bottles of pills down the drain, but Neely seemed to have an endless source and endless hiding places. When she wasn’t in a drugged sleep she was underfoot, bleary-eyed, carrying around a bottle of Scotch and screaming curses at Hollywood.

It was Kevin who insisted she move. He put her in a hotel suite. She could stay there as long as she wished, as his guest.

When her money for the sale of the house came through, Neely mysteriously checked out of the hotel. A few weeks later she turned up in a Greenwich Village police station, arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace, based on complaints about the loud parties she gave. She had been almost unrecognizable in the newspaper pictures—fat, blotchy, red-eyed, her hair falling into her eyes.

Anne had rushed to her. Neely was holed up in a fashionable building on lower Fifth Avenue, but the apartment looked like a tenement. It was littered with empty whiskey bottles, and most of the furniture was broken, stained or burned from careless cigarettes. The rumpled linen on the bed looked as if it hadn’t been changed since Neely had taken occupancy.

“Lemme come and live with you, Anne,” she mumbled. “I got lotsa money. I just can’t stand being alone. That’s why I always give parties. And look what those slobs have done—this place was gorgeous when I sublet it.” She looked around ruefully. “The lady I got it from is suing me for damages, so I gotta get outta here. . . .”

“Neely, you’ve got to pull yourself together. I spoke to your agents. You are still a big name—you could do a Broadway show.”

“Nope, I’m unreliable. They’re afraid of me.”

“Not if you straightened out—if you did a show and proved you
are
reliable.”

“I can’t sing, Anne. I lost it.”

“No one could sing living like this. And you shouldn’t smoke, Neely. You smoke more than I do. Look, why not check into a hospital for a few days—”

“No! That’s what Dr. Gold said. He’s my new headshrinker. Wants me to go to Connecticut to some fancy funny farm. Costs a thousand a month. But I’m not a nut—I’m just unhappy.”

“I agree. I meant a regular hospital—like Mt. Sinai or Doctors. Let them get you off pills, regulate your life—”

“No. Lemme move in with you. I’ll be good. No pills. I swear.”

Anne had heard this oath before, but she promised to think about it. When she left she called Neely’s doctor. He was deeply concerned. He agreed a few weeks in a hospital might help, but it wasn’t the solution. Neely needed drastic psychiatric help.

That night Neely disappeared. Perhaps she feared commitment. No one knew. She had over a hundred thousand dollars, but the way she was spending it even this sum couldn’t last long. She turned up in London, and the British press gave her a front-page reception and an enthusiastic welcome. She attended parties and basked in acclaim. She was booked into the Palladium, but at the last minute canceled out. Then, suddenly, there were stories of her exploits in Spain. She seemed to have settled there. She made a picture—the advance publicity was excellent, but it was never released—and after a time she gradually disappeared from the news. Anne’s letters were returned stamped “address unknown”—Neely seemed to have vanished.

1960

Jennifer arrived in New York late in November, without publicity. Her call came as a complete surprise to Anne.

“I’ve got to see you,” she said eagerly. “I’m at the Sherry.”

“I’ll come right over. Is anything wrong?”

“No, everything’s perfect—divine! Anne, I read that Kevin was selling the company. When is the marriage date?”

“We’re trying for February fifteenth.”

“Good. Maybe we can have a double celebration.”

“Oh sure, we’ll—
What?
Jen, what did you say?”

“Come on over. I’m talking on a hotel wire, remember?”

Jennifer was waiting impatiently when Anne arrived. “I’ve got sandwiches and Cokes all set up. We can have a real old-fashioned gab session. Have you got time?”

“The whole afternoon. Jen, who is he? Tell me!”

Jennifer’s eyes were shining. “Oh, Anne, I’m so happy! I don’t even care that I’m going to be forty next Friday. I still get the curse, so I can still have babies, and . . . well, being forty doesn’t matter now.”

Forty! The word hit Anne with a sudden jolt. Jennifer forty! She looked marvelous. She recalled how she had thought Helen Lawson old at forty, and her own mother—dried out at forty-two. But Jennifer still had the incredible figure and the firm skin. She looked twenty-five.

“Remember when I attended the big Republican rally in Washington—right before the convention?” Jennifer asked.

Anne laughed. “Remember it! Kevin swears you’re responsible for the Democrats getting in.”

Jennifer grinned. “Well, it was a studio publicity thing. I was willing to do anything for them after they got me my release from Claude. It cost them plenty, but they did it to make me happy.” She shuddered. “I’d had it with his dictating to me. I was nothing but a salable piece of flesh to him. Not that the studio doesn’t regard me the same way, but at least they’re more delicate about it. They even pretend I have talent.” She laughed outright.

“Now, Jen—you were excellent in your last picture.”

“I thought I wasn’t too bad. It was my first serious role. But the picture’s dying everywhere.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing. The biggest stars come up with a loser now and then. You were listed number three at the box office in last month’s polls.”

Jennifer shrugged. “Listen, if I hadn’t met
him,
I’d be in a state of shock. The studio is hysterical about the picture laying an egg. They’re rushing to get top writers for my new picture . . . the top director . . .” She shrugged. “But I couldn’t care less. This morning I found two new lines under my eyes and even
that
didn’t bother me.”

“Who
is
he?” Anne demanded.

Jennifer pushed away her untouched sandwich and sipped at her Coke. “Well, you remember the shindig in Washington? He was there. We met at all the cocktail parties. He was always nice, but he didn’t fall all over me like everyone else did. He was remote, polite, but . . .”

Anne was exasperated. “Jen,
who?”

Jennifer’s eyes narrowed. “Winston Adams.” She waited for Anne’s reaction.

Anne almost exploded. “You mean the
senator?”

Jennifer nodded.

”You
. . . and Winston Adams!”

Jennifer leaped up and spun around the room. “Yes! Winston Adams. Senior senator, Social Register, millionaire—comes from generations of millionaires. But Anne, if he didn’t have a dime, I wouldn’t care. I love him.”

Anne sat back. Winston Adams! He was about fifty—attractive, brilliant and immensely popular. “But Jen, I heard he was the Republicans’ big white hope, that they’re grooming him for—”

Jennifer nodded. “They are. And he’s willing to give it all up for me.”

“How did it happen?”

Jennifer’s eyes grew soft. “Well, like I said, we met I met dozens of senators and had my picture taken with all of them—you’d be surprised how obliging some of those senators can be. They’re bigger hams than actors. Except Winston Adams—he refused to be photographed with me.”

“Good for him!” Anne said. “That’s one way of attracting your attention.”

Jennifer shook her head. “He meant it. On the day before I left, when all the hoopla was over, he phoned me. He said he wanted to talk to me—asked me to dinner. I went to his apartment that night. I thought maybe it was a big party, but it was just us.”

“He must be a democrat at heart,” Anne said, smiling.

“No, nothing happened. I mean, no sex—he didn’t even try. He had a servant who was there all the time—not hovering over us, but you knew he was there. He explained that he hadn’t meant to be rude in refusing to pose, but that he just didn’t go for that kind of thing. Then we talked. He asked me a lot of questions, and he actually listened to me. We talked about Paris. He went to the Sorbonne when he was young, and he wanted to know how Paris had changed since the war.”

“Why have you kept it such a secret?” Anne demanded. “He’s not married.”

Jennifer grinned happily. “It’s not going to be a secret any longer. Last week marked two years since the death of his wife. He felt it wouldn’t have looked proper until now.”

“Oh, that’s right. They
were
very devoted.”

“Only on the outside. It was one of those arranged marriages, like you would have had if you had stayed in Lawrenceville. Both from good snooty families with money. Oh, he thought he loved her at the time. But she was the frigid type—hated sex. But that’s not the important thing to him with me,” she said quickly. “He went with me for two months without even trying. We’d sneak and meet in out-of-the-way places—Kansas City, Chicago . . . I’d wear a black wig. Then he came to California for a week—and we did it! Anne, he’s divine. He’s so gentle. He loves me, but for
me!
He was stunned when he saw my boobs—he had always thought they were padded! He had never even seen any of my foreign films. Anne, he’s the first man who ever fell for
me,
not just my body. And he was so
shy.
At first he was even afraid to touch my boobs. But I’ve taught him, and now—wow!”

“He’s discovered sex,” Anne said with a smile.

“Discovered it—he acts like he
invented
it. But don’t you see, I don’t mind it this way, because he was originally attracted to me without it. And Anne, he wants children. His wife was the flat-chested, horsey type from Maryland, and she never had any.”

“But Jen, he’s not really young—and what makes you so sure you’ll conceive just like that?”

“Well, I’ve had seven abortions. My insides are ready, willing and able all the time. And when I told Win I wanted to get out of pictures and have children he was so happy he cried. He actually
cried,
Anne. He felt life had passed him up on all the things he really wanted—a girl he could love, children. That’s why he buried himself in his work. He doesn’t give a damn if I louse up his career. He says the Republicans won’t get a President in office for at least eight years, and they can’t fire him from being a senator just because he marries a movie star. He just wants what I want—a home and kids.”

“Does Winston know your real age?”

Jennifer nodded happily. “He was delighted. Of course, I didn’t tell him about the little tucks behind my ears. I mean, let’s not scare the man. He’s liable to think I’m something out of Shangri-La. But he was glad I wasn’t in my twenties. He thought I’d think he was too old. And once when I visited him on his farm, I sat around all weekend in pigtails and no makeup and he said I was gorgeous. Oh, Anne—it’s all so wonderful. I’m going back to the Coast next week to drop the bomb. I’ll finish the next picture—they’ve already shot the exteriors and fitted the costumes—but that’s it! Let them scream. So I’ll never work again, who cares? I’m through with the whole scene.”

“When will you get married?”

“Well, starting tonight we’re going out publicly. We’re going to the theatre, then to a supper party at ’21’ with Senator Belson and his wife. We’ll probably make all the papers tomorrow, and Win will shyly admit we’re engaged.”

Anne smiled. “I’ll probably see you tonight. We’re going to ’21’ too. It’s a late dinner, so we’ll probably be there when you arrive. This will be one of those long dreary ones, with some of the people who are buying Kevin’s company.”

Jennifer impulsively pressed Anne’s hand. “Oh, girl friend, isn’t it wonderful! We’ve both wound up at the top, with success, security and a man we love and respect.”

Anne smiled, but she felt the familiar weight descending.

When she saw them at “21” that night, Jennifer was glowing, and she had to admit that Senator Winston Adams was an imposing-looking man. He was tall, with clipped steel-gray hair and a flat stomach that suggested daily workouts at the athletic club. Jennifer stopped at their table. Introductions were exchanged, and the Senator went out of his way to be gracious. “I feel as if I know you,” he said to Anne. “I’ve seen you so often on television—and of course, Jennifer talks about you constantly.”

She watched Jennifer all evening. Jennifer’s eyes never left the Senator’s face. They were adoring, the eyes of a girl genuinely in love. Anne envied her. She looked at Kevin. Thank God he had recovered. He was so good and kind. Oh, God, why couldn’t she feel
anything
for him? If she had, she would have been married to him ages ago. Look how she had pestered Lyon, even offered to support him. But with Lyon there was more to it than just sex. She had wanted to be close to him every second, to crawl inside his thoughts. . . . Oh, God, what am I doing, she thought. There is no Lyon. Like Henry says, I’m in love with an image. . . .